


Quick to Burning, Slow to Learning

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But John can't even waltz?!, Doubtful Sherlock, Frustrated Sherlock, Glitter, John can actually dance, John had a secret, M/M, Oily Bodies, Sherlocks POV, Stripper John, Sweaty John makes Sherlock a bit hot under the collar, glitter will travel...it is sneaky like that, glittery cocks, he can't get back to Baker Street fast enough, much to Sherlocks very pleasant surprise, no poles in the bedroom, sexy times ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: As a favour to one of Johns uni friends John and Sherlock infiltrate a local strip club to uncover the person blackmailing the strippers who work there.  Short, compact, combat ready John would be ideal to cover the bar area while tall, sculptured, graceful Sherlock would be the ideal candidate to pose as a stripper…right?





	1. Plan

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock looked around, a skeptical eyebrow raised as he took in the, quite frankly, gaudy interior.  It was all very…blue.

“It looks better when the house lights are off and the club lights are on” an unfamiliar voice said from behind him.

Sherlock turned to see a man, late thirties, early forties; 5ft 10; 136 pound; light brown hair, recently coloured, presumably to cover any greys that had sprung though; well dressed (thankfully not in a blue suit); professionally manicured hands; wide beaming smile directed at John.  Obviously the owner of the Blue Peacock, the very blue strip joint they were currently standing in.

“Dan” John greeted cheerfully holding his hand out to the man.

“John” the man returned, accepting Johns hand in a rather tight grasp of his own.  “I am so glad you could make it.  You don’t know what a relief it is to see you here.”

John let go of _Dans_ hand and turned his attention to Sherlock.  “Dan, this is…”

“Sherlock Holmes” Dan interrupted, holding out his hand to Sherlock, a wide grin on his face.  “I have read all about you mister Holmes, via John’s blog of course.”

“Of course” Sherlock replied with a small but false smile, ignoring the offered hand.  This didn’t seem to bother Dan at all. 

Sherlock hadn’t wanted to take this case, but John had asked, as a favour to him, and Sherlock really needed to get John out of the flat and preoccupied on something that wasn’t his latest hobby.

The gym.

Since John had moved back into 221 B Baker Street, Mary and the other man’s baby no longer an issue, he had been restless.  In order to combat that restlessness he had taken up going to the gym every other day to get over what ever midlife crisis he was having over discovering that the father of the baby had been twelve years younger than him.  Sherlock had decided that if it kept John in a good mood then all would be peaceful at home and it wasn’t a big issue.  It wasn’t like it was going to directly effect Sherlock after all, was it now.

Wrong!

It was all fine and good when John left to go to the gym.  It was when he came home, clad in shorts and t-shirt, material clinging to his skin with sweat, hair mussed, body smelling of….Anyways, it had been become distracting so when the Yard had managed to not offer anything at all, and the website hadn’t offered anything of interest, Sherlock had agreed, be it half-heartedly, to take the case when John had told him that a friend of his had phoned him.  

It was a simple case of black-mailing, rating no higher than a four if he was being generous, but if Sherlock could draw it out to last a few days then he could stop John from going to the gym for a few days.  Watching John ogle over all the half naked woman was bound to put Sherlock in a bad mood, rather than a brooding one, but the distraction would stop John from…sweating.

“Can I get you gentlemen a drink of something” Dan offered, holding his hand up to get the attention of the man behind the bar, polishing up glasses.  “Beer, whiskey, water…”

“If we could just get on with the blackmailing at hand Mr Clarkson, after all, that is why you called John, is it not.”

The other man stopped in his tracks, smile fading from his face and then made his way over to one of the booths that lined the back of the room.  Sherlock and John followed, each slipping into the neatly upholstered seats, John and Sherlock on one side of the table, Dan on the other.

With a deep inhale Dan Clarkson laced his fingers together, on top of the table and begun his story.

“About four, maybe five months ago, one of my best male dancers came to me with a letter that had been left in the dressing room for him.”  Sherlock’s inner mind grinned satisfactorily at the announcement of male dancer.  It seemed there would be no ogling over half naked women after all.  “He was a young kid, stripping to pay his way through uni.  This was never going to be a long term career option for him but he was damn good.  Really bloody good.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and was about to tell the man to get to the part they were needed when a sharp kick to the side of his calf stopped his mouth from opening up and beginning his retort.  Dan noticed none of this exchange nor the sidelong glare that Sherlock threw at John, which John in turn ignored, keeping his focus on the man across from them.

“Anyway, he left and as disappointing as it was, the business went on.  We got another dancer to take his place and nothing was heard of again, until a month later.  Two of our dancers, in the span of three weeks, received five letters between them threatening to out them to family members or prospective employers.  One of these gentlemen come from a strictly religious family while the other was almost finished law school.  Both of them had something to lose if certain people had been made aware of their current career choices.”

Dan’s tale of woe was interrupted by the man who had previously been behind the bar, delivering three glasses of water and then quickly making himself scarce again.  Dan took a long drink of his water and then continued to explain his dilemma. 

“Two months ago it happened with another one of our dancers, this one just starting and still feeling his way through the routines and whatnot.  He was nervous as hell, but Jake, our head choreographer, said he had potential.  He didn’t even make it out on stage before his letter was found and then in the past three weeks four more of our dancers have received letters.  Two of them don’t care much, as they are happy to be stripping, but two others have families or reputations that wouldn’t survive if it was found out that this is what they did for a living, although I’m not sure why.  It’s not as if our guys offer anything but dancing.  We’re not that kind of establishment.”

The speech ended there and the three of them sat in silence.  Dan waited for Sherlocks verdict, finishing off the rest of his drink.  John ran his fingers over the condensation forming on the outside of his glass as he mulled facts over in his own head.  Sherlock still hadn’t touched his glass and was trying to figure out why someone wanted all of the clubs dancers to leave.  If the blackmailers main goal was to discredit the club or to get the club shut down there were more direct and speedier ways to do so.

Sherlock mentally upped the case to a definite four and said to Dan, “I will need to see the letters.”

~o~

The letters ad only been marginally helpful.  Typed, standard office paper that could be purchased in any local office supply shop, folded thrice and left without an envelope in the dressing room of the dancers - so, someone with backstage access and familiar enough for others not to note their presence.  Unfortunately there were only five letters as the first ones had been taken, and more than likely destroyed, by the people being blackmailed.  What Sherlock did learn, though, was that whoever was sending the letters knew the victims.  He knew enough about them to know exactly how to target them to make them leave immediately, except for two of the later recipients.  Even then, the letters were still personal and on a person less assured about their actions, they most certainly would have worked, so it also told Sherlock that whoever had sent the letters was familiar with the dancers but not familiar enough with the dancers to know what their reactions would be towards being threatened.  

“I will need a list of employees” Sherlock announced, reading through the letters one more time.  “And I will also need access to them.  Somewhere where I can talk to them without it looking like I am investigating them.”

“So, undercover then?” Dan asked.

“Possibly” Sherlock mumbled.  It wouldn’t be the first time the two of them had adopted new personas to get information, nor was it the strangest place they had had to do so and it would make sense.  

Sherlock looked up just in time to see a rather large smile spread across Dan’s face, which was unexpected.  Usually people had issues having someone _not in the industry_ step in and act like they knew what they were doing, not that Sherlock would have to act much.  He was quite adept at most forms of dance and stripping was not one he was new to.

“I was sort of hoping you would say that.”  If that comment had thrown Sherlock, the resulting groan from John had left him completely confused.  As mentioned before, this was hardly the most oddest place that they had gone undercover.  Sherlock would happily hand that title over to Santa’s magic cave or quite possibly the alpaca farming ring they had infiltrated several months ago.  Then there was also the body piercing parlour and the geophagy addicts support group.  This was definitely quite low on the list of unusual places they had gone undercover.  In fact, Sherlock was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier.

“No, Dan.  That was years ago” John groaned.

“What was years ago?”  Sherlock demanded.

“Come on John, you know you want to” Dan goaded, but John just shook his head, both of them ignoring Sherlocks questions.  

“What does John want to do?” Sherlocks demand for answers was more adamant this time and John turned to look at him.

“Dan wants me to train some of the dancers” John supplied and a huff of laughter left Sherlocks lips at the sheer absurdness of the suggestion.  It was barely noticeable over outright laughter that came from Dan.

“No, John, you have it all wrong” the man corrected, placing his hand on Johns shoulder.   “I want you to dance.”

An almost stuttered “ _What!_ ” forced it’s way out of Johns mouth at the same time a partly affronted, partly amused “ _Seriously?_ ” gushed out of Sherlocks.

“Absolutely” Dan beamed.  “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen this man move?”  He said to Sherlock.

“No, I have most definitely seen the man dance.  I did try and teach him to dance.  It was barely passable.”

“Oi” John interjected, somewhat affronted.  “I did a bloody good job.  I didn’t step on her feet once and no” he said turning to Dan.  “It’s been years since I have even thought about that.  It’d be no good.  You’d be better off getting lanky legs over here, plus, he’s much prettier than me.”

This time it was Sherlocks turn to be affronted.  “Prettier” he scoffed.  “And what has been years?”  Sherlock still wasn’t sure what this thing between John and Dan was, but it was something that Sherlock was not privy to and he wanted it rectified immediately.

“John here is a stellar dancer.  He was always the star of whatever club we went to.  He used to find these sort of illegal warehouse set-ups where people could get away from the mainstream clubs and just enjoy dancing, I mean _proper_ dancing.  Twinkle toes here never backed down from a challenge.  Don’t think he lost any either.”

“I lost plenty, thank you and it was decades ago.  God, I was still in uni.”

Sherlock was still trying to get his head around John dancing - in clubs and makeshift dance houses - that he almost missed Dans next comment.

“Bullshit.  It was Murray who put me on to you and he told me all about your little performances during downtime in Afghanistan.”

“But you can’t even waltz” Sherlock blurted out just as John was cursing Murray to hell and back.

“See” John said, looking to Dan.  “Can’t even waltz.”

Dan just shrugged.  “Neither can half my guys.  It’s a different sort of dance.  Come on John” the man pleaded. 

John was silent.  Sherlock could see that he wanted to say no, that he was going to say no.  His mouth had opened to form the first word in the refusal, but Dan beat him to it.

“How about we get Matias, one of our dancers, to see what you’ve got.  He’s pretty good at picking potential and he will be in later today.”

Johns mouth snapped closed.  He looked to Sherlock, who was going to back him up in refusing, but then he thought that he could at least see John with Matias, even if it was to get a glimpse of what John had once been capable of once upon a time, so instead of opening his mouth in protest, he just shrugged.  “Show him what you can do.  Once he sees how two-left footed you actually are at least he will stop bugging you.”

At this, Johns look of sheer reluctance left his face and was replaced with a steely determination, one that Sherlock had seen only a few times before.  It was the face that John Watson got when he was issued a challenge that he knew he could beat, when he knew his opponent had miscalculated Johns abilities and had assumed his instant failure.  Whenever Sherlock had seen that look on Johns face he had always been very pleasantly surprised.

“Fine” he said with sheer determination and then turned to Dan.  “I’ll meet with Matias and we can go from there.”

The look of glee that lit up Dan’s face did not bode well for Sherlock either.  It was the look of a man who knew exactly what he had wanted and had exceeded in obtaining it.

That thing was apparently John Watson, strutting half naked on stage.

Oh, damn!  Maybe this case wasn’t a good idea after all?!

~o~

“Here” Dan said, holding up a pair of modified camo pants, clearly a size too big for John’s tight waist and pert…”Sergeant Sexy.”

”NO!  I’m not making light of that situation, that was a serious role, and before you ask, no I will not don a white coat and stethoscope, so you can just get the name Dr Love or what ever other ridiculous moniker you have, out of your head right now!”  Sherlock could not be more thankful that John had refused something as trite and cheesy as either as those roles.  The only thing that could be worse were if Dan were to pull out a pair of handcuffs and suggest…

“How about a Constable Mc Hot…”  The police hat he had proudly displayed dropped straight to the floor as John barked out,  “No cops either. Just…something not in my life, yeah?”

In silence they went back to going through the wardrobe while they waited for Matias to turn up for practice.  Dan had decided if they knew what John was going to wear then it would make choreographing the act easier.  Sherlock was still certain that there wouldn’t be an act at all.

“Sergeant Sexy, really?” John asked after something that looked like it had come straight from one of Johns ridiculous Sci-Fi shows was pulled out and instantly shoved back in the cupboard.  

Dan just gave a sheepish smile of apology and went back to going through the costumes. “I just own the joint.  Veronica normally handles all of that sort of stuff.”

“Maybe we should ask Veronica now” John suggested as a pair of chaps were held up.  Sherlock had wanted to agree to those but the look John shot Dan was definitely a negative towards the cowboy persona.  Pity.  Sherlock would have loved to have seen John yield a whip.  If it was anything like the way he handled a gun….

Sherlock quickly realised that the two other men in the room were in the process of vacating the room and he  caught up in time to hear John sulkily inform Dan “And for your information, I made Captain, thank you very much.”

 


	2. Prepare

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock had been kicked out of the club.  Well, not so much as kicked out, as told that he would not be sitting in on Johns practices, well, not really told so much as threatened and then man handled out, so actually, yes.  He had been kicked out of the club.  

“Don’t be absurd, John.  Of course I’m not leaving.  I’m quite excited at seeing your two left feet at work again.”  Sherlock had seen John dance.  He had tried to teach the man the waltz for crying out loud.  It had been enough to make Sherlock want to go out and buy steel-capped boots, just so his toes would survive the assault that was John Watson’s two left feet.  Despite what this Dan fellow believed of John Watson, he could.  Not.  Dance!  This would be interesting.

John didn’t answer so much as glare at Sherlock, but the message was all the same.  “ _Leave now, you wanker, or the only body parts in the fridge will be your fucking spleen_.”

Sherlock had resolutely sat down on one of the chairs at the front of the stage and crossed one leg over the other, waiting for the show.  He had seen John do many things and graceful and smooth were not any words he would use to describe John, except for maybe when he was shooting…and anything to do with doctoring…and maybe rendering a man unconscious…but all that aside. Sherlock barely had a chance to stand up before John had jumped down from where he had stood on the stage and physically manhandled Sherlock to the door, marching him with one hand twisting Sherlocks arm behind his back and the other hand gripping his collar tight.  

“I said, _leave_ ” John growled which did perfectly wonderful things to the little nerve endings covering Sherlocks spine, but this unfortunately left Sherlock unaware that he had been pushed outside and the heavy iron door slammed in his face until it was too late.  Bugger.

Oh well, he would just have to be more careful next time.  After all, John was to have a week of solid training with the not so spectacular Matias.  

“ _Pfft_ ” Sherlock huffed as he walked away, hands shoved deep in his pocket.  As if that was even his real name, and the accent was clearly fake.  It was almost as bad as his tan.  That… _boy_ , had seen as much of Spain as Sherlock had seen of that ridiculous children’s cafe that had opened up just around the corner from his home.  (The last thing children needed was a cafe’!) No, the furthest _Matias_ had been from the Soho club he danced at was Lewisham, where he was obviously from.

Sherlock pushed aside all thoughts of Matias, placing his hands on John, trying to get his shoulders to slide and hips to grind and…. ‘ _Ping.’_

Sherlock was never happier to receive a text message.  Even seeing that it was from his brother didn’t anger him. At least, not until he read it.

**I do believe you left something behind - MH**

Sherlock frowned and shoved the phone back in his pocket, flipping the bird at the next CCTV camera that he saw as he trudged home, feeling too malcontent to want to deal with what would, knowing his current luck, be a chatty cab driver.

~o~

The days passed and Sherlock threw himself into the case.  They had a week to prepare.  Eight days before they infiltrated the Blue Peacock and Sherlock wanted to have everything he could get on every single one of the employees at the club.  

It was fine during the day.  John left the house every morning at eight am and Sherlock pushed aside the thought that he was going to let _Matias_ place his hands on his body and manipulate it into doing something that resembled graceful and alluring, as it appeared that Matias did indeed see some form of potential in John.  Sherlock still had his doubts and figured _Matias_ saw a potential of a different kind.  The kind that would drive Sherlock to distraction if he didn’t force himself to stay focused on the case.  The case that was the reason behind John not really alleviating Sherlocks problem of John coming home all dishevelled and sweaty at all, because now it was even more of a problem.  Now it wasn’t just every two or three days that John came home in such a state.  It was every. Bloody.  Day.    

For nine and a half hours John would be gone and Sherlock could forget about what it is he might be doing, but at five thirty each day he trudged up the stairs, exhausted and sweaty.  Sherlock could see it in the way his t-shirt clung to his body, the way he smelt as he walked through the flat, the way Sherlock knew he would taste if he were…Maybe he should have just let John continue going to the bloody gym!

John would then take himself to the shower and twice, Sherlock had found himself gravitating towards his bedroom, and not because there was a glass panelled door that looked into the bathroom (he may not follow the banal rules set out by society, but he wasn’t a creep either!) but because he wanted to make sure that John wasn’t so exhausted that he didn’t fall in the shower and injure himself.  At least that is what he told himself.

In the time that John was away at rehearsals Sherlock determined several things about the clubs main employees.  First up, Dan was an idiot.  He was very personable which is probably the second main reason his club was successful, but he was an idiot.  Second (one of the reasons Dan was an idiot) was that the finance manger, Tania Wellington was fleecing them.  Not by grand amounts, but a hundred this week and a couple of hundred the following weeks.  Over the past six months it had added up to over a few thousand pounds, and that was just what Sherlock had uncovered so far.  Veronica Fletcher, the Clubs PR, HR, assistant manager and all round Jack-of-all-trades was what was keeping the club afloat.  She managed advertising, hiring and firing, and was the creative liaison with the dancers.  Mick Jacobs was in charge of lighting and music and didn’t stand out for any reason, whether it be positive or negative.  Todd Denny was in charge of the bar.  He shouldn’t be.  He was the second reason Dan was an idiot.  Todd was a womaniser and an alcoholic.  So far three reports of sexual harassment had been made against him.  One by an employee and two by patrons.  The only reason Sherlock could see as to why he hadn’t been fired was because he was Dans cousin.  Then there was Jake.  Jake was the clubs longest employed dancer.  He now not only danced, but also choreographed most of the other dancers work. The only thing Sherlock could find wrong with him so far was the obvious use of steroids.

There were two dancers on workers compensation, but that seemed to be going smoothly and all of the other dancers seemed some-what happy with their employer.  Of course there was the usual amount of drugs and sex that happened back stage at these sorts of venues, despite Dans insurances that it wasn’t that sort of an establishment, it was just kept respectful and quiet and wasn’t advertised.  

As for competition, there was plenty of it.  Just on the street that the Blue Peacock was on alone, Sherlock could name four other strip joints, two advertising female strippers and the other two catering for both male and female clientele.  The Peacock was the only one in the area that had only male strippers.  It wasn’t the classiest out of the lot, but it was close to the top.   Dan had never had any run-ins with the other clubs and didn’t pilfer their talent.   

He was still certain that it was another employee that was doing the blackmailing.  Veronica was ruled out because she was too familiar with the dancers and would have known that Ben and Francis were happy, proud strippers and blackmailing wouldn’t work.  Todd may be responsible, trying to get the male strippers out in favour of female ones, but he knew what the Blue Peacock was when he signed up for the job.  Tania’s love of money could have motivated her to blackmail the dancers but no money had been asked for.  Just the implication that if they didn’t stop dancing then they would be exposed.  Jake could be the one doing it, he was getting on in years and may be jealous of all the new talent coming up, but wouldn’t it just be easier to train them badly?  Mick also didn’t raise any red flags or cause suspicion.  He really was rather quite dull.  

The cleaning was contracted out to Finish Up Cleaners on Kingston, who didn’t come in until after the show was finished and everyone had gone home.   Sherlock had still done some intensive research into the company, mainly the workers that worked the club, but came up empty.  They were inconsequential. 

There were no security cameras in the dressing rooms but the ones in the corridors showed that people were in and out of the dressing rooms all evening, mainly the dancers, which made Sherlock believe it was one of them.  They all had the opportunity and Dan had said that every one of the men who had left were good dancers, or had the potential to be good dancers, so if there was someone who was jealous of the others talent it could work.  It would be disappointingly cliche’ but it would fit.  The only problem was that there was over thirty dancers and eighteen of those worked most nights, so trying to pin one out of that many was tediously time consuming.  

On the fourth day of investigating Sherlock had made the mistake of requesting videos of all of the dancers.  It wasn’t until he sat down and was half way through the first one that his overactive imagination started imagining John on the screen.  

Sherlock slammed his laptop closed and went for a walk to clear his head.  Forty minutes later he found himself out the front of the Blue Peacock.  Dan was more than happy to let him in, but he was steered in the complete opposite direction of the stage.

“Sorry, under strict instructions from the Captain not to let you anywhere near there” he said with a chuckle and Sherlock had a horrid feeling that John had gone with the Sergeant Sexy act after all.  “Says he will pull out straight away if he sees you anywhere near rehearsals.”

“God, is he truely that bad?” Sherlock scoffed, flopping down into the chair in Dan’s office, looking around the small office and _not_ thinking of John in tight, barely-there camo pants.  There really wasn’t much in it.  Nothing that screamed it was the office of a strip club, unless you chose not to ignore the glitter that had made its way into the room, which was clearly inevitable - it had managed to make its way to Baker Street as well.  

“You have never honestly never seen him dance, have you” Dan marvelled, apparently completely unable to believe that Sherlock had never seen John dance.  

“I really have.  It was slightly painful” Sherlock replied, clearly unable to believe that John really could dance.

Dan waved the comment away with a flick of his hand.  “I told you, waltzing doesn’t count.  Waltzing involves another person, and it is restricted, there are rules.  What John can do, what all my dancers can do, is something completely individual and there are definitely no rules.  Sure, a few of them will combine their acts, but it is still just them doing their own things.  It just sort of clicks.  Much like your and Johns relationship I suppose.”

Sherlock looked from the book on new age business management, which was on the desk, up to the man, a frown adorning his brow.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, look at the two of you.  He’s reasonably mild-mannered, politer than necessary, dresses like my grandad and completely likeable and then, there’s…you.”

“What about me?” Sherlock questioned, sounding somewhat put out, although he really was nothing like how Dan had just described John, but that wasn’t the point.  The point was, Dan knew nothing about him.  About them.

“Lets just say you have better fashion sense” Dan answered after giving Sherlock a calculated look.  “Look, the point I am getting at is, you are both completely different, but you work well together, if Johns blog is anything to be believed.  It’s like the dancing.  It needs to be individual for it work successfully.  The boys need to do their own thing in order to work well together.  Too many rules or too much direction from the choreographer and it is just some guy up there moving.  That’s not Johns style.”

Sherlock looked down at the tip of his shoe, contemplating Dan’s words.  No, John wasn’t one for being lumped into a routine, following everyone else.  He did need to do things his own way to flourish.  It was one reason Sherlock had tolerated him in the beginning.  Despite fitting perfectly into society, he still did things his own way.  Even when he made John do it Sherlocks way, John still managed to do it his own way in a way that fit in with the parameters of Sherlocks way.  That was how he worked best.  

He still couldn’t believe that John could dance though!

“So, apart from trying to sneak into rehearsals, what was it you needed?”

“Huh?” Sherlock asked, looking up from where he was still staring at his shoe, to where Dan was sitting behind his desk, looking expectantly at Sherlock.

“I assumed you actually came here for a reason.  Was it something I could help you with?”

“Yes, your dancers.  Tell me about their abilities.”

“I thought you looked at the videos” Dan queried.  

Sherlock pulled a small face at the memory of that attempt.  “Too slow.  Who are your best dancers and why.  Also, the same for your worst dancers.  And make it quick” he demanded, thinking up another way to try and see what John was up to as Dan blather on about thirty different dancers.

~o~

As it turned out, Sherlock never got another chance to try and see Johns practice, which just left him frustrated.  He thought he would get his chance on Thursday night when Todd was showing him around the bar, but by the time Sherlock arrived at the club, John had finished, despite it being two hours before he normally ended rehearsals.  Sherlock tolerated Todd for thirty-six minutes and then left.  It was a bar for crying out loud.  You took orders, took money, handed over drinks.  Not rocket science.

Instead of sitting out the full two hour induction (who actually took two hours to learn their way around the back of a bar?) Sherlock left the club and made his way home, annoyed that after a full eight days of being on this case the closest he had got to seeing John prepare was glimpsing the aftermath when he returned home every night. Sweaty and tripping on the last stair, which confirmed Sherlocks belief that John was not graceful or competent enough to pull this off successfully, despite what Dan said.  So maybe, once upon a time, John could dance.  That was a good decade or more ago.  He was older now, and injured and had absolutely no rhythm what so ever, but the work he had been pushing himself through was definitely having a negative impact on Sherlocks sanity.  Despite the fact that John _always_ wore clothes, the minimal neck to knee covered, it was still obvious that what little fat John had been carrying was almost gone.  Through his shirts and jeans Sherlock could see more muscle definition and his clothes were now a size too big.  It really wasn’t what Sherlock was going for when he agreed to take this case and between that and not being able to view John at work with Matias, Sherlock was left in a rather foul mood.  The fact that he had only narrowed the suspect list down to six people didn’t help either, so when he got home to find a showered and pyjama clad John sitting at the table, reading the paper, he really wasn’t up for small talk.

As Sherlock silently went through all of the information once more, John came up behind him with two bowls of left over Vietnamese in his hands.  “Here” he said, handing one to Sherlock.  Sherlock ignored it and turned his attention back to the letters in his hands.  He heard John place the bowl on the coffee table and go sit in his chair.  “How’d you go with that case Greg gave you on Tuesday?”  

Sherlock let out a long exhale through his nose.  The case had been fairly interesting, but no more than a 5, but he didn’t feel like sharing with John right then so he just grunted out a semi response, which answered nothing at all and left John to eat left over Vietnamese while Sherlock looked at the photos of his six potential blackmailers, thanking whoever it was that didn’t exist that he only had one more night of not knowing what John had been up to.  With any luck, once tomorrow was over everything could go back to normal and Sherlock would only have to put up with John being sweaty two to three times a week.


	3. Perform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit longer than the other chapters, but here it is, what we have been waiting for. Front row seats for you all!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song John dances to is: Massive Attack - Paradise Circus (Zeds Dead Remix) - You can listen to it at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u8C-ZTQJIkU 
> 
> The title of this fic is taken from Babel, also by Massive Attack

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock grabbed a tray and went out to collect empty glasses, wanting to get a closer look at a few likely suspects that were sitting in the front room before they had to get ready to go on stage.  Apparently this wasn’t unusual for the dancers to watch the others performances in their downtime.  He was on his second table when a new dancer, introduced simply as John was announced and the curtains went up.  In the dark, Sherlock could make out a man that was most definitely John (he would know that silhouette anywhere) and a chair.  Nothing else.  Sherlock knew nothing of tonights performance due to the fact that he had not been allowed in during rehearsals and John had refused to talk about it.  Sherlock could only assume that John was still embarrassed about the entire situation and, while being down here gave Sherlock more of an advantage to read the patrons, he couldn’t help but think that, due to the fact the establishments more popular dancers had been targeted, it really should be himself that was up there.  

The room fell quiet just as the act started.

The music started off with a soft beat followed by slow, seductively haunting music which was when the soft blue and white lights came on, lighting up John Watson in an ethereal sort of way that suited the music perfectly, and Sherlock had to do a bit of a double take at the man on the stage.

John was barefooted, dressed in black pinstriped trousers that clung to his well muscled lower body and a deep sapphire blue shirt that was just as tight, if not more so, than Sherlock liked to wear his own.  He had nothing else on except a fedora hat and black bow tie, hanging loosely around his neck.  His back was to the crowd, his head tilted down, legs parted, not quite shoulder width apart and once the vocals started in the song, so did John’s body start moving.  Just an isolation of shoulder movements, sliding, like water on oil. His hands came up to his head, where they flipped the hat, rolling it down his arm before smoothly replacing it back on his head, his hips circling just as smoothly.  Slowly and in jolted movements, John eventually turned to face the crowd and that was when his body started really moving the undulation of his abdomen accented by the tight silk currently encasing it.  

At that moment all Sherlock could think of was burning every top John owned and replacing them all with replicas of _that_ top.

Sherlock’s right hand, which had been holding the empty glass he had been in the process of picking up just as the music started, stopped between the table and the tray balancing on his left hand, the glass in his hand temporarily forgotten as John started to move.

The song was slow, but sensuous, allowing John to roll his muscles seductively in time with the music.  The stuttered, electronic beat that picked up sporadically throughout the song allowed Johns body to move about disjointedly, which by all rights should have looked ridiculous, but to be honest the only word to describe it was _hot_.  

Somehow the glass Sherlock had been holding made its way back on top of the table it had been lifted from and the tray, carrying two empty glasses and one half full glass of coke and rum had been absent mindedly handed over to the person currently sitting at that table as Sherlock watched John, not once taking his eyes from the sight that was on the stage before him; he didn’t even blink, not wanting to miss even half a second of the performance that was John Watson, rippling his body as if it were made of liquid, rather than flesh and bone; muscle and tendon, all of which were flexing and writhing.  Slowly he made his way closer to the stage, ignoring the protestations of the people who he pushed past to get closer.

By the time that Sherlock made it to the front of the crowd John’s hand was sliding up from where it had been rested on his hip, to glide smoothly across his clavicle which was partly exposed due to the top three buttons on his shirt being open.  It was a simple move, but left Sherlocks mouth, which had practically been drawling moments before, dry.  As the beat picket up in electronic jolts, the hand moved back down his body, opening up each straining button on the way in time with the music. As each button was released more muscle than Sherlock would have believed was hidden behind those woollen atrocities and boring cotton numbers that John wore, was exposed rippling and rolling and swaying from side to side in liquid motions, as John artfully slid and prowled his way to the chair in the centre of the stage, snapping open the button fly on his trousers as he went.

As he straddled the seat his left hand made one more sensuous journey up his now exposed body where it then eventually moved over to the black bow tie that was hanging from under the collar of his shirt.  With one quick flick of his wrist it was free from his body and Sherlock had very little time to register that it was sailing through the air, right towards him, too busy was he focused on the cheeky grin John had thrown in Sherlocks direction.  At the last minutes, Sherlocks hand shot up and his long fingers wrapped around the silky material, still warm from being so close to John’s body.  If he were to bring it up to his nose, it would have smelt like John, but Sherlock managed to restrain himself as he continued to watch John move up on the stage, but only just.

John gyrated his hips slowly, his arse grinding in circular motions on the seat of the chair and for the first time in his life Sherlock found himself wishing he were a piece of furniture.  Not just any piece of furniture - _that_ piece of furniture.

Locking his eyes with Sherlocks, John rolled his shoulders seductively, shrugging the blue shirt off, where it slid down his arms, dropping to the floor behind him in a pool of deep blue silk, then, holding onto the back of the chair with one hand he arched his body back suddenly, his throat exposed, the curve of his spine drawing attention to the wide span of his chest which sparkled under the low lighting and Sherlocks blank mind could only come up with, _glitter - John is wearing glitter!_   It shouldn’t have been so alluring but Sherlock just wanted to lick it off, despite his mouth being dryer than the Simpson Desert in summer, but that wasn’t to last long.

Just as John flung his head back, hat falling to the floor, bowing his back perfectly, the hand not holding onto the back of the chair delved into the opening of his trousers, every movement visible through the empty frame of the chair back and suddenly Sherlocks mouth was once again suffering from an overload of saliva.

There was John, literally groping himself in front of an entire audience, in front of Sherlock.  John who was sensible and conservative and polite.  John, whom Sherlock had assumed he had deduced down to a tee.  He had never been so delighted to be so wrong about someone.

The music faded off, but didn’t quite end, and during the lull, John straightened up and stood up from the chair, his hand sliding out of his trousers and back up his body to slide around the back of his neck.  The disjointed electronic beat picked up once more and Johns body once again started to move, rolling his upper body as his trousers slid, just a bit further down his hips, the band of black silk poking out of the top of them, as to the beat of the music he nudged one foot forward, followed by the other, repeating the action until he was almost at the edge of the stage and Sherlock had to really control himself to stop from reaching out and touching John.

He didn’t get much time to think about it before John jolted back a step or two and sunk to his knees, twisting as he did so, so his back was, once again to the audience, and at this height Sherlock had a perfect view of the exit wound on Johns shoulder but he didn’t want to look at that, despite trying to get a sneak peek of it ever since he had learnt about it.  Instead, now, he was focused on Johns arse, which was thrusting back and forth in time with every second beat, hard enough that his body was sliding further away from Sherlock with each thrust forward.

With another twist of his body, John was laying on his back, his body pulsating on the stage floor as his hands roamed his torso, head thrown back, bottom lip clenched between teeth, eyes shut; a look that depicted ecstasy at it’s highest peak and all Sherlock could do was stare at the man before him as a white hot lust coursed through his own body.  This man that was not at all like the John Watson he knew.  This person before him was liquid and silk, moving as one with the music.  This person who couldn’t handle a simple waltz was undulating and throbbing with the beat currently reverberating through Sherlocks body.

He was grace and style and sex in… _oh, god_ …where had his trousers gone.  They were there a second ago.  Sherlock chastised himself for getting too caught up in his own mind, even for the brief few moments it had taken John to get up from the floor and remove the pinstriped trousers that had shown off his arse and thighs beautifully, but not as beautiful as the tight, shiny black shorts that were the only other thing that the doctor was wearing.

John’s pelvis seemed to do its own thing, rolling and undulating under those tight black shorts which left absolutely nothing to the imagination, while his hands travelled over his body, down and then up again.  

John continued to move, his spine sliding in undulated movements his hips which were circling around seductively, sliding along on the heels of his feet, and spinning on the balls all in sensual, fluid motion that was executed with perfection.  Even his hands seemed to travel his body with a grace that Sherlock had never seen the man demonstrate before he turned his back to the crowd once more, his body bent at the waist just ever so slightly as if teasingly offering his backside to Sherlock, because by now he had dismissed everyone else in the room as existing - it was just him and John and then the man’s hips rolled, the muscles under that flimsy black material flexing before clenching as his short, sturdy hands framed his hips as if guiding them around in those wicked circles that did things to Sherlocks insides.  Things that he had been able to push aside and ignore,  until tonight.

As the song started to slow down John dropped to his knees once more, the top of his body sliding to the left before sliding seductively slowly to the right before straightening up once more, then with a final travel of his hands up his body, his arms dropped limply to his side and his head fell forward, kneeling with his knees slightly splayed, his backside resting on his heels, a lower version of the way the dance had started and the final lyric ‘ _again_ ’ gently sang through Sherlocks head and all he could think, as he watched the lights dim on Johns sweating body was ‘Y _es, again._ ’  

He needed to see it again.  More of it.  All of it.  Whatever John could do, Sherlock wanted to see it.  Needed to see it.  He needed to see John Watson.  John, who was sensible and reserved and wore cardigans, who looked like _that_.  Could move like _that._   Appeared far too comfortable on the stage.  John had hidden all of this from the world, which was fine by Sherlock but he had hidden it from Sherlock and that wasn’t fine by Sherlock.  Because Sherlock needed to see more.  

He was vaguely aware of John’s shadowed form standing up, the heaving of his chest after such a performance barely noticeable in the shadowed light and as he walked off the stage, his clothes left scattered on the stage and the sounds around Sherlock suddenly registered, cat calls and whistling filling his ears, and suddenly he didn’t want to be there.

Damn the case, all Sherlock could think of was getting John back to Baker Street and getting him to replicate those moves underneath him while on Sherlocks bed.  Or the couch, or the floor, or wherever they managed to make it.  The slight infatuation that Sherlock had had over John had blown into full on obsession in five minutes and seventeen seconds.  The small irritating feelings that Sherlock had been pushing aside for months now were raging inside of him, screaming to be acted upon for now that Sherlock had seen, he would never be able to un-see.  The entire performance had already found a spot in his mind palace and had decided to put itself on loop, re-playing itself over and over again.   

As a general rule, Sherlock wasn’t necessarily hung up on flat stomachs and firm muscles, although they were most certainly appreciated.  He had become attracted to John before all the business with the gym, and then the last eight days in solid training just for that five minutes on stage, but clearly all of those workouts paid off.  If he had known how well John actually had toned up, Sherlock may not have been able to stop himself from doing something completely inappropriate.  As it was, after tonight, all bets were off, Johns comfort levels be damned.  Sherlock would fix any issues there were later, but he had to get his hands on that body, his mouth on that skin.  What was the point of life if he couldn’t?

Hastily he shoved the tie, which was still clutched in his hand, into his pocket and headed towards the door that would take him backstage.  

The corridors were busy with dancers flitting in and out of make up rooms and dressing rooms and going to and from the bar but eventually Sherlock made his way back to the dressing room where John was stationed.  He was just about to push the door open when suddenly it was pulled open from the other side and there was John, clad only in a pair of jeans, still bare foot and a sheet of white paper, folded thrice in his hand.  

“John” Sherlock all but gasped, still not caring about the cases, not when so much skin was on offer and at a distance that Sherlock could lean over and lick…

“Not mine” John stated, eyes darting around the corridor which was quieter at this end of the building and it took Sherlock a few seconds to realise that John was talking about the letter in his hand.  “It was left for Matias, who only just left the room.  I passed him on the way back here, so whoever it was wasn’t far behind him.  Who did you pass on the way here?”

For a few seconds Sherlock stood there, just blinking and trying to get his head around the fact that John was talking.  And shirtless.  

“Sherlock” Johns voice snapped and Sherlock gave his head a small shake and realised that John was actually still talking about the case.  _Why?_

“Who. Did. You. Pass?”

With a small annoyed huff, Sherlock thought back to his journey from the front room to the back dressing room and realised that he hadn’t taken in a single detail.  

“Cameras” he finally managed to get out.  “The cameras will be able to show us who entered the room after Matias left.”

Grabbing the letter out of Johns hand, Sherlock studied it as quickly, the two of them made their way through the back corridors to Dans office.  It was a distraction from the still half naked John not even a meter away from him.  

“John” the man greeted cheerfully. “You were amazing.  Don’t suppose you fancy doing another night?”

“We need to view the security footage on Johns room” Sherlock interjected, thrusting the letter at Dan.  The mans jovial expression dropped as he saw the letter in Sherlocks hand.   If he couldn’t be happy about John in hardly any clothes then Dan certainly didn’t get to be either.

“Who this time?” he asked, sounding rather despondent.

“ _Matias_ ” John answered as Sherlock reiterated “ _Cameras, now_.”  He didn’t want to stand around while Dan moped.  He wanted to find out who was responsible so he could get John home and back out of those trousers.  Sherlocks mind then wandered to thoughts of what John was wearing under those trousers.  Did he still have those black pants on?  Those black pants were rather nice.  He definitely wouldn’t mind seeing those again and then he definitely wouldn’t mind getting John out of….

“All access to the security cameras is here” Dan announced, breaking Sherlocks train of thoughts.   “You just need to click on what camera you are after and then scroll back to the time you want.”

Sherlock pushed his way around to the other side of the desk, hipping Dan out of the way and navigated through the grainy images on the screen before him.  It took him less than twenty seconds to find the camera that was positioned closest to Johns dressing room and it took another minute to scroll back to when Matias exited the room.  Thirteen seconds later, Francis entered.  Nothing suspicious there - it was his dressing room as well.  Eighteen seconds later, Jake entered.  There was no activity for another eight seconds when Jake exited and six seconds later Francis exited the room.  Forty-seven seconds later, John, clad only in those tight black pants came into view and pushed through the door, the muscles in his back bunching as he did so.  He rewound the footage back ten seconds and replayed John entering the scene and pushing through the door once more.  He was about to do so again when John, from the other side of the desk, unable to view the screen that Sherlock was studying with utter rapture, spoke.  

“Anything?” he asked.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the vision of John’s muscled back to look up to his startling blue eyes.  

“Did you find anything on the footage?”

Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to get visions of John out of his head, which was hard to do since there was only a desk separating the two of them.  “Wha..yes…of course.”  He straightened up, cleared his throat and turned to Dan.  “You need to fetch Jake and Francis.”

~o~

Sherlock was getting nothing out of them.  Dan had summoned the two dancers and for the past two minutes all Sherlock had gotten out of either of them was “ _I don’t know what you talking about_ ” and “ _Well, it certainly wasn’t me_.”  Since then he had been met with silence and petulant glares which was exactly not what he needed in order to get John back to Baker Street and situated between his thighs with his mouth…

“I really don’t want to stand here while the two of you sit silently, refusing to talk” Sherlock said to the two sitting before him, irritation lacing every syllable that spilled from his mouth.  “I will find out which one of you has been delivering the letters but it will take longer and I don’t want to wait because I have a flatmate that I need to take home and have loud raucous, vigorous, mind blowing sex with, so…”

“I’m sorry, _what!?_ ” John spluttered, causing Sherlock to turn his irritated attention from Jake and Francis on to a very wide eyed John.

“We’ll discuss it later, now it is not you I want talking.  It is these idiots.  So” he stated, turning back to the two idiots sitting in front of him, “Just do it the easy way for once.”

Still, he was met with silence as Francis looked idly down at his knees and Jake stubbornly refused to look away from Sherlock.

A frustrated growl left Sherlocks mouth.  “Fine, the long way it is then.”

Sherlock stalked around the two of them, taking in every small detail.  He leaned in, inhaling the scents that surrounded them, got up close to inspect their faces, their fingers, their hair.  He ran a hand over a smudge of something oily on skin and listened to the rate of breathing.  Then he stood up.

“Jake Henderson, dancer at the Peacock for twelve years now.  Was once the top dancer but age comes to us all, doesn’t it Mr Henderson” Jakes glare only intensified at that comment but he still remained silent.  “As for you Mr O’Donnell” at this, Francis looked up from his knees, a look of slight contempt on his features.  “A good dancer, but never the best.  Never got that extra promotion, or the prime spots.  Always passed over for someone just that little bit better and lately, that little bit younger and while you aren’t anywhere close to Jakes age, you are getting on in years and not getting any better in dancing.”

“Fuck you “ Francis sneered.

“Oi” John interjected, stepping forward, but Sherlock held up a hand to halt his movements.  

“Jake, CK1, an old but distinct fragrance.  Funny thing about it though, it doesn’t contain any traces of citrus.”

“What has that got to do with anything” the man asked, clearly confused.

“Below the alarming amount of fragrance you wear there is an underlying note of orange” Sherlock ignored the confused look on Jakes face and turned to Francis.  “But I note that you favour the more natural scents.  Terre D’Hermès if I am not mistaken, which I am not.  Very citrusy, orange to be exact.”

“Is this going anywhere?” Jake spat.

“Smudge of something oily on Mr O’Donnell’s back.  Smells a lot like hemp cream, just like your hands, but the cream hasn’t been rubbed in, no.  They are finger like smears.  You rubbed the oil based cream into your hands and then for some reason had your hands splayed over his back.  There is also glitter on your lips.  Odd place to get it, don’t you think, not so much if it was just a fleck or so, but that’s not the case.  It is concentrated in the corners of your mouth and the inner crease.  Your mouth has been in contact with something that has been covered with glitter.  There are many viable options, but lets not get too crass and leave it at you have been mouthing at flesh.  You also inhaled sharply when I placed my hand on Francis' back.  A very possessive tell if there ever was on.  Then there is the letter itself.”

Sherlock waited for the usual three seconds of silence, purely for dramatic effect, and snatched the letter off of Dans desk.  “Completely devoid of all marks that could identify the sender.  Well, almost, but there is an amazing combinations of scent on the letter itself.  Paper, like cloth, absorbs scents and guess what this one smells like?”  Sherlock held the letter out loosely to John who took it and smelt the paper.  

“Orange” he stated, slightly bewildered and Sherlock found himself thinking rather fondly of the way John got so bewildered so easily, before focusing back on the problem at hand, which was he was still at this bloody club and not at home.

“And hemp oil” he added moving to stand in front of the two men, seated in chairs in the middle of Dan’s office.

“So, it was Francis?” Dan asked, clearly not certain of what he was guessing.

“It was” Sherlock confirmed and just as Francis was about to protest the conclusion he also added “And Jake as well.”

The room plunged into silence, the fact that neither men was denying the fact was horribly telling. 

“Why?” Dan finally asked, coming to stand next to Sherlock and when neither men were forthcoming, Sherlock filled in the details, making sure he sounded as disappointingly bored as the answer had turned out to be.

“Jake was annoyed that his dancing days were practically over and Francis was jealous over the fact that he was never the best dancer, despite trying very hard.”  Another glare was shot at Sherlock, most likely due to the patronising tone he had taken.  Serves them right, for being dull and predictable.  “Together they conspired a way to keep the better dancers away.  Fairly easy to plan as they are sleeping together.  It was a good move to send one to yourself, Mr O’Donnell, throw the scent away from yourself, but next time you attempt black mailing I suggest you both stop wearing your signature fragrances.”

Sherlock turned from the two men to Dan.  “Mr Clarkson, I will let you decide whether or not you want to bring charges against these two.  Thank you for the case, it has been very illuminating, but we must be going.  Come John” and with that he left the room, dragging John behind by the wrist.  He had already spent too long _not_ at Baker Street.   It was time to rectify that problem.

 


	4.  Postlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loud, raucous, vigorous, mind blowing sex!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for following this fic with me. It has been one that I have gone back to many times, building it bit by bit and after many months, and multiple trips to the recycle bin, only to be retrieved later, it is finally completed and your kudos' and comments and support has been wonderful! Hugs to you all and I offer you gratuitous smut as my thanks to you!

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Sherlock was irritated at the fact that John had made him wait at the club while he finished getting dressed (What was the point…Sherlock had made it very clear in Dans office what exactly it was that they would be doing once they got home).  Then in the cab, John had sat as far away from Sherlock as possible, keeping his hands in his lap, face turned towards the window and silent.  

Several times Sherlock had gone to reach out to John, just to feel him, to touch him, but had then reigned in the impulsion.  If he had started touching John, he doubted he would have been able to stop and he didn’t fancy getting kicked out of the cab and ending up in having to walk home.  

Now they were finally in their living room and John was still just standing there, fully clothed, while Sherlock had removed his coat, shoes and socks.

“Loud, raucous, vigorous, mind blowing sex?” John stated and Sherlock wasn't sure why it was posed as a question.  

“That is the plan.  Why aren’t you divesting yourself of clothing?”  Sherlock asked shortly, starting on the buttons of his shirt.

“Sex, Sherlock.  You do know what that entails, yes?”

Sherlock shot a frown of exasperation at John before answering what should be very well known to a doctor who had the moniker ‘ _Three Continents Watson’_.  “Naked bodies, penises, more than likely one penetrating either orifice of the receiving partner.  I’m not fussy which way.”

“Sherlock, how long have we known each other?”

"Six years, plenty of time to get to know each other, if that is your problem, now, strip” he ordered as he dropped his shirt to the floor.

“No, my problem is that during that time have you ever shown an interest in having any sort of relationship with _anyone_ or ever known me to date other men?”

Sherlock was undoing his trousers and trying valiantly not to role his eyes.  Of course John was going to fall back on those excuses.  Again.  Apparently it was time to clear the air of such nonsensical notions, so as he dropped his trousers to the ground, and prepared to remove his pants he  apprised, “Just because you never noticed, doesn’t mean that it never happened John.  If that was how life worked, it would be very dull indeed, and as for you dating other men, no, but you have certainly looked, plus there was that one time at uni and those few brief dalliances in the army.  Now that we have established that I am not as virginal as you believe and you are not as straight as you would like everyone else to believe do you think we could get to the part where we have loud raucous, vigorous, mind blowing sex.  Please.”

Sherlock finished unhooking his pants from around his ankles and stood up straight, as naked as John was clothed.  _Why was John still clothed_?

“So, now, just because you finally feel like it, we are just going to jump into bed together?”  John was sounding very titchy.  He would be a lot less titchy if he removed his clothes.  

“Problem?”  Sherlock asked, placing one hand on his hip and using the other to indicate that John should get to work removing his own clothes.

“ _Yes_ , Sherlock.  A big problem” John almost yelled and with an over exaggerated sigh, Sherlock flopped down into his chair and prepared to listen to Johns tirade about some form of social nicety that Sherlock had deleted.  He went to cross his leg, but decided that with an erection as prominent as the one he was currently sporting, it was probably better to sit with both feet flat on the floor.

“Fine, lets just say we both strip off and have a quick roll in the sheets.  Then what?  We go back to normal?  Me, pretending I’m through with relationships and you being more than happy with The Work, now that you’ve got your fix?”  By now John had worked himself up into a right state and the way he was running his fingers through his hair was not really distracting Sherlock from his previous thoughts of lust and pure infatuation.

“Of course not.  You’d move your belongings into my room and we would continue to have quite vigorous sex in a multitude of places in a rather vast variety of different ways until either you grew tired of me or we grew too old to have any further sex in which case we could just regale the more memorable moments to help get us through the final tedious years of our life.”

John opened his mouth to offer some dull thought on the matter and then seemed to stop as some realisation seemed to settle over him.

“Did you just ask me to grow old and retire with you?” He asked, looking curiously at Sherlock and Sherlock looked curiously back at him.

“I thought that was a given, John.  After all, you did move back after Mary left and you haven’t dated since then.  I just assumed I was presenting a different dimension to the relationship we already had.”  True, it was a dimension he didn’t think he could have, but the rest was true.  He had honestly thought John was here to stay.  

All of Johns agitation and doubt seemed to drop and he tipped his head to the side, looking at Sherlock as if he were trying to comprehend something tricky.  

“So, what you’re saying is - ”

“-hmmm -”

“ - we would be in a relationship - “

“-hmmm-“

“-as in a romantic relationship - “

“ - well, I wouldn’t go far as to call it _romantic_ as such, but - “

“- and it’s not just a one night thing to quench some urge - “

“ - it will most definitely be quenching an urge - “

“ - and is more than likely to have a repeat performance in both the near and distant future?”

“Many repeat performances.”

John straightened up and the look of thoughtfulness that was on his face was replaced by something darker and more primal.  “Then why the fuck are we still talking?” And with that, he started stripping off his jacket and toeing off his shoes.

“My argument precisely” Sherlock agreed and for the second time that night relished in the sight of John Watson stripping down.  It was as John was down to his vest and jeans that Sherlock had a sudden urge for something different.

“Stop” he barked, Just as John was unbuttoning his jeans and the other man looked up, disappointment in his eyes.

“No, not definitely, just, slower.  I want you to strip for me.”

Johns brow dipped.  “ I was strip…”

“No, John. I mean, _strip_ for me.”

Realisation dawned on Johns face and a smug grin tipped just one corner of his mouth.  His hands moved from the button on his jeans and slowly, very slowly, traveled up his abdomen, fingers curving around ribs and as they travelled up over his shoulders, he turned so his back was to Sherlock and they moved back down, crossed over his body, to grip the hem of his vest and then slowly, he pulled the top up and over his head, flinging it back so it landed in Sherlock’s lap, tented by the very interested penis between Sherlock now slightly parted thighs.  

Johns hands moved out of sight as his hips gently, yet seductively swayed from left to right and Sherlock could hear the sound of a zipper be lowered and then Johns hands reappeared on his hips, gently shimmying the trousers off of his hips and down his thighs and a deep intake of breath could be heard from Sherlock as he saw that John was indeed still wearing the tight, shiny, snug fitting pants he had worn on stage.  With a provocative roll of his hips John turned back around to face Sherlock and Sherlock was well pleased to see that John really was as interested in the proceedings as what he himself was.  With just a few short steps, John was in front of him and before Sherlock knew it the other man had straddled his lap and was slowly gyrating his hips and grinding his arse in small circular motions on Sherlocks thighs, rubbing up against his cock with every forwards roll and Sherlock couldn’t help but tip his head back and grab onto Johns hips to pull him in tighter.  God, it felt better than he had dared hope.

He startled when he felt something wet and warm on his neck but once he realised it was Johns tongue, he arched his neck back further, tipping his head to the side.

“I do believe you said something about loud and raucous” John murmured against his skin and Sherlock let out a deep, loud moan at the vibrations it sent through his body.  His hands on Johns hips tightened and he started thrusting up, just lightly, every time John pushed forwards.  

“ _God, John_ ” he moaned as Johns tongue worked over his neck and across his clavicle, his hips not once stopping.  Sherlock bucked hard as Johns hand dipped down and circled around his cock.  “John” he cried out, his own hand moving to cup Johns arse, his fingers sliding over the silk that encased it and he felt the muscles bunch under his hand as Johns hand slowly stroked him, thumb circling at the slit of his cock, smearing pre come in a trail down the underside of his erection before forming a ring and sliding back up again.  

With clumsy fingers Sherlock scrabbled with the waist band of Johns pants and tugged at them until they were pulled down mid thigh, which unfortunately meant that John had to raise himself from Sherlocks lap but it was all fine for when he seated himself again, Sherlock could feel Johns scrotum at the base of his own cock and then there was Johns penis, pushed up against his own.  “God, Sherlock” John panted as he wrapped a hand around both of them and Sherlock could only moan in agreeance as his hips started to thrust in earnest, pushing himself up into the ring of Johns fingers.  

Sherlocks other hand returned to Johns arse and cupped a cheek, the tips of his fingers running along the crack and when he felt John push against the sensation he removed his hand and offered two fingers to John.  Without further instruction, John sucked the fingers into his mouth making lurid, obscene sounds as he lathered them with saliva, leaving Sherlock with thoughts of what else John could be lathering with saliva.  

When he felt his fingers were adequately lubricated he pulled them from Johns mouth and returned his hand to Johns bum and as John resumed the stroking, that he had temporarily stopped as he had fellated Sherlocks fingers, Sherlock traced Johns gluteal cleft down until he found what he was looking for.  John grunted as Sherlock teased the opening with his slick finger, pushing back as hard as he was pushing into his own hand and when Sherlock slipped one finger into John a long, low groan slipped past Johns lips and his head tipped forward to lean on Sherlocks Shoulder.  “ _Yes_ ” he gasped and started thrusting harder.  The tight grip around Sherlocks finger was just as satisfying as the grip around his cock and after a few thrusts he pushed the second finger in alongside the first.  The noise John made, low and guttural, sent sparks down Sherlocks spine and drawn out “ _Johhhnnnn”_ was pulled from his lips as his fingers moved in time with his hips.  Together they both pushed and pulled at the other, building them up, pulling sounds, low and deep from the man before them, sounds neither of them knew the other could make.  Lips found skin, pulling bruises to the surface, sometimes with the aid of teeth, tasting the sweat on skin and before long the rhythm they had set up started to become erratic and uncoordinated.  

It was Sherlock who came first, and almighty “ _JOHN_ ” leaving his mouth as he spilled, warm and thick, over Johns hand, hips stuttering as he added to the mess.  Once the daze brought on from orgasm had cleared it was to find John, stroking his own cock and riding Sherlocks fingers, panting and pleading for “ _moremoremore.”_ Sherlock, not being one to be outdone in the bedroom (or anywhere, really) pulled Johns hand away and replaced it with his own, finding a rhythm that seemed to satisfy John as he continued to push down on Sherlocks fingers, still buried in his arse.  As Johns pleas turned from “ _moremoremore”_ to “ _yesyesyes”_ Sherlock crooked his fingers one way, and then the another until he felt the little nodule he was looking for.  As his fingers swiped over Johns prostate, Johns back arched, pulling his head away from where it had been resting on Sherlocks shoulder, to tip back, exposing his throat and Sherlock took that as an opportunity to latch on, sucking another mark into Johns flesh as John came, hard, semen covering Sherlocks hand and splattering on his stomach.  

“ _Fuuuuuck…Sherlock_ ” John groaned as he came and came, eventually finishing by letting his head thud back onto Sherlocks shoulder as small shivers wracked his body while he came down from his own orgasm.

For a few moments neither of them moved or made a sound, except for the heavy breathing which slowly turned into smoother, gentler breaths.  

“You have glitter on your cock” John said, somewhat flatly and then he started giggling.  “Oh, my god, this is ridiculous” he chuckled and Sherlock smiled against his neck as he pulled him in closer.  Yes, it was ridiculous, but it was ridiculous with John, so it was all fine. 

When John finished giggling at Sherlocks apparently glitter coated cock he sat up and looked to Sherlock.  Sherlock watched as Johns eyes darted over his face, finally settling on his lips.  At the same time, the two of them moved towards each other and for the first time, their lips met.  It was soft and slow, and didn’t have nearly as much tongue as Sherlock thought their first kiss would have but he found he didn’t mind so much.  There would be time for filthy kisses later.  

“We should get cleaned up and go to bed” John suggested, pulling away all too soon for Sherlocks liking.  “And these pants are digging into my thighs.”  He backed the statement up by giving a little shuffle on Sherlocks lap, trying to bring his legs closer together.  

Reluctantly, Sherlock let go of John and the other man slid, somehow gracefully, off of Sherlocks lap, pulling the black silk up over the mess they had made.   Silently, the two of them made their way to the bathroom.  

“I don’t suppose Dan would have footage of the performance” Sherlock asked as John carefully wiped congealing semen off of Sherlocks stomach and hands.  

“I will personally provide you with a fun and interesting murder if he has” John replied, a hint of a smile creeping across his mouth.

“Well, in that case” Sherlock said, taking the cloth from John and using it to wipe any mess off of Johns stomach.  “I demand a repeat performance.”

“Do you now?”  John said, one eyebrow cocking as he looked up at Sherlock.  

“Hmmm.  And maybe, with the shirt that you had on tonight…Definitely with the shirt you had on tonight.  I could get my tailor to make a replica if the club isn’t willing to give it up, oh, John, I could get my tailor to make more, with different colours.  I’m thinking gunmetal grey, with a slight sheen, or maybe a royal red.  That would look quite fetching.  Speaking of red, maybe red pants, just like these ones, or…John, how do you feel about g-strings?…I know someone who makes customised lingerie for men, nothing lacy or frilly, but…revealing and very tight….have you ever used a pole to dance…we could have one put in the room….”

“Sherlock!” John placed one hand on his chest and used the other to grip his chin, directing Sherlocks gaze onto him.  “Stop” he laughed.  “Just, slow down, Jesus.  No, we are not having a pole put in the room.”

Sherlock felt the pout take over his mouth and another huff of laughter left Johns lips.  “Lets just, go to bed, yeah and we will see what happens tomorrow, okay?”

Sherlock exhaled a small sigh out through his nose and gave a short nod, which wasn’t easy as his face was still in Johns grasp.  “Fine” he huffed and John pulled his face down to place a small kiss on his lips.  

“I don’t know about you, but I am knackered” he said and stepped around Sherlock towards the bedroom.  Sherlock grabbed onto Johns hand and let himself be led into the bedroom where John gave him a soft shove towards the bed and then, stripping out of the black pants, climbed under the covers as naturally as if he had always been sleeping in Sherlocks bed.  Sherlock slid in next to him and made quick work of positioning John so he was in a position for Sherlock to essentially use him as a very comfortable pillow.  

“I should warn you, I run hot in my sleep” John said as Sherlock made himself comfortable, half draped over John.  

“'t’s fine” Sherlock murmured, finding the darkness of the room and the warmth of John under the duvet with him quite the soporific.  

“You won’t think so when you wake with your face on a sweaty chest” John yawned, and settled an arm loosely around Sherlocks waist.

Sherlock's mouth curved into a small grin.  “Oh, I don’t think that will be too much of a hardship.” 


End file.
